FIC: Shattered Ornaments (Hogwarts professors)
Title: Shattered Ornaments
Author: liliths_requiem
Characters: Horace Slughorn, Filius Flitwick, Poppy Pomfrey, Pomona Sprout, Albus Dumbledore, Madame Pince, Fabian Prewett, Gideon Prewett, Aberforth Dumbledore
Prompt number: 268
Word Count: 2100
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Harsh dialogue, questionable morals, fall from grace for many professors
Summary: 21 drabbles chronicling the three wars faced by the Wizarding world during the twentieth century, as seen by the professors.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its merchandise, characters, plots, or history. This story was written for enjoyment purposes.
Author’s Notes: I really like how this came out, even if it does move away from the prompt. Thanks so much to K for being an amazing beta, and thanks to the mods for holding this fest :)
The Ornaments of our Generation
“This isn’t difficult, Horace,” Filius reprimands as they go through the steps again. “Swish, flick, wrist snap left, and loop. You have to get it perfect. Are you bloody paying attention?” Both of them are restless, hungry, and sleep-deprived; but this may be the only shot at escape they have. They’ve been in hiding, living behind enemy lines with a defector and her daughter, gathering covert information about Grindelwald to which not even Dumbledore has access.
“This whole thing is difficult,” Horace responds, “Is it ever going to end?”
Filius doesn’t have a response for that, so he says nothing.
:::
Poppy is staring sat Horace’s mangled body, but her words are directed to the man behind her. “And we’re supposed to believe we can win?”
Albus doesn’t move, but the comfort in his tone is more tangible than a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be over soon,” he promises, “And it will get easier. The world is going to change, Poppy.”
“I don’t know how much longer you can keep convincing us,” she tells him, pouring another potion into Horace’s open wound. “But I’ll keep fighting.”
It’s more than a promise, it’s a fact. Poppy will always be a Hufflepuff.
:::
When the war ends, with a final duel that decides everything, no one rejoices. The battlefield is silent as both sides collect their wounded and their dead. The Aurors begin to round up their prisoners. As the Germans walk through the open field, those lucky enough to be on the right side stare on with empty eyes.
Closest to Dumbledore are Horace and Madame Marchbanks. Horace looks on as Albus falls into the old woman’s arms, his body tired and his soul worn. He shudders, because watching Albus Dumbledore fall apart is the same as learning the God is fallible.
:::
“And now the sun will shine, yes?” Madame Pince asks, as she is taken from her prison cell into Filius’ custody. “Now you will tell me that I am lucky Albus owed my father a favor, and that I should be repentant.”
“No,” Filius responds, quietly. “You fought for what you believed in. I cannot fault you for such a thing. Professor Dumbledore is offering you freedom. I only think that you should be grateful to him.”
“You are in the Ravenclaw House, then,” she says, after a moment, “You are too fair to be any of the other three.”
:::
September 1, 1945, arrives only thirteen days after Grindelwald was imprisoned inside his own fortress and damned to never see the outside world again. Pomona Sprout begins her second year at Hogwarts completely convinced that everything in the world is going to be okay now. Her favorite teacher, Professor Flitwick, tells her that her optimism is refreshing. She dashes off to her next class wearing a proud smile. She doesn’t hear the words Filius isn’t entirely sure he’s spoken aloud.
“Perhaps the young people will prosper,” it’s more of a hope than a conjecture, “Perhaps the worst is behind us.”
:::
Minerva McGonagall begins Hogwarts a year later. She’s a broken little thing, but fierce, and she’s such a quick learner that Horace soon believes her to be the smartest witch of her age. She smiles in the worst way, but as time passes and she settles into routine, Minerva finds her footing and flourishes in her studies. She befriends Pomona half-way through January, and they are soon joined by Alastor Moody, a Slytherin. The three of them make an awkward trio, as they share neither year nor house. But in seeing them find friendship, despite their differences, Horace finds hope.
:::
“I don’t like him, Professor,” Pomona explains when Professor Beery asks her to tutor Tom Riddle. She is in her final year at Hogwarts, and looking to take a post-graduate assistantship for a few years to continue in Herbology. Riddle is in his fourth year and wants advanced lessons in Herbology. Pomona is honored to be chosen but not stupid enough to say yes. When Al tells her not to trust someone, she usually listens.
“I can do it myself then,” Beery replies, wondering why his star pupil seems so against the young man.
He shrugs, perhaps it’s just jealousy.
:::
This Wreck of Our Belief
:::
“Dumbledore says it’s Riddle,” Moody tells her over tea. Pomona shivers at the idea, but hides it well. The only physical manifestation of her fear is a slight tremor in her hand as she picks up her cup and brings it to her lips. She hasn’t heard that name since Dippet praised him for turning in Hagrid, and she’s been half-hoping Riddle’s fallen off the face of the earth.
One look at Al’s face, however, and she knows he hasn’t.
“What is the Ministry going to do about it?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady.
“They don’t know yet.”
:::
The Ministry doesn’t find out for another ten years. It’s 1974 and Minerva’s been teaching Transfiguration long enough to watch two generations pass through Hogwarts’ gates. She’s still broken, and she knows Horace knows it. He’s protective of her and it makes her wish he was a better man, instead of a spineless, old twit. She respects him, if only because he keeps going, when so many of his generation have stopped.
“They say it’s Riddle,” she tells him, as they’re watching a Quidditch match. “What do you think?”
Horace shakes his head. “I’ve learned it’s best not to think.”
:::
“He was brilliant, though, do you remember?”
Pomona’s never been one to begrudge anyone praise, but she blanches when Filius calls Riddle brilliant. She remembers the way he used to charm his way into her friends’ beds and out of her professors’ punishments. He was so charismatic it was sinful, and if she hadn’t given up on God she’d mark Tom Riddle Jr. down as the Devil.
“You never care about morals, do you Filius?”
“I think I am old enough that I should no longer have to.”
Dumbledore, from down the table, disagrees, “You will never be that old.”
:::
Horace asks her mockingly, “You fled England to support Grindelwald, will you flee Hogwarts to support this Voldemort?”
Madame Pince barely opens her mouth when she says, “Do not think that Gellert and this miscreant are of equal stature. Gellert would decimate this young man without so much as a wand movement. Your Voldemort is a weak imitation of greatness. My Gellert was greatness personified.”
Horace shudders at the display of passion, burning after almost thirty years of separation. He wonders if it’s safe to keep her in the castle, but knows he would never trust her outside its walls.
:::
“Caradoc Dearborn is dead.”
Fabian says the words without the slightest bit of hesitation. His eyes are hard and his face is drawn shut, like curtains over a broken window in a futile attempt to keep out the wind. He is only thirty-three years old, but he looks much older as he stands up in front of the Order and gives them this news.
His brother stands next to him, his counterpoint, and adds, “Or defected, we aren’t sure.”
Fabian shakes his head, “Yes. We are.”
But although Fabian was in her House, Pomona cannot help but believe Filius’ Gideon.
:::
Aberforth is the first to learn of the Potters’ passing. He waits thirty minutes before sending his patronus to inform his brother of the prophesized ending. He knows that Destiny will need time to interpret the events before Albus can intervene in them. Albus likes to disturb the universe, and Aberforth thinks Fate is something with which not even magic can contend.
“I do wish you would have told me right away,” Albus says, ten hours later, “We may have caught him.”
Aberforth says nothing, but there’s something in his eyes that tells Albus his brother’s hesitance was not unplanned.
:::
“Two wars, Albus, and I’m not even one hundred yet,” Filius complains, as they finish the pudding of their victory feast. Not that any of the professors feel very much like celebrating. Minerva breaks down into tears each time someone says Sirius’ name, and Horace can’t speak for fear of blubbering over Lily’s death. Filius has never seen his oldest friend look so weak, and it’s pathetic, but Filius won’t behoove him the right to grieve.
Albus nods his head, but it’s Irma who says, “Let’s hope we won’t see a third one.”
“Hope is a fragile thing,” Albus says.
:::
The Worst Become Impossible
:::
“We duel to kill.”
The words echo in his mind like a battle cry, and he wonders if she meant it that way. Minerva has always had too much of that Scottish blood running through her veins, and Horace cannot help but believe that her Muggle ancestry has something to do with her impulsiveness.
He never thought she’d reduce herself to the murder of students, however. Maybe that isn’t the way she sees it, but that’s the way it is. Minerva is about to do battle with the monsters, and her old professor fears she will become one of them.
:::
When she says the words, their repercussions aren’t immediate, and she’s almost secure in her belief that she won’t have to attack any of the children she and Horace teach. But then she runs into a sixth year Slytherin in her NEWT class, his arm raised in an attack stance and his eyes hardened against any silent pleas her eyes may be belying her tight lipped scowl with.
“Stupefy.”
She breathes deeply when the curse hits. When she turns, she is surprised to see Horace.
“You must forget that they are children, if you are going to duel with them.”
:::
The idea comes to her unbidden, because Pomona has never had any interest in fighting in a battle, only in protecting her students. She runs to the greenhouses before anyone else can think to guard them, and she tears open the door like something only half human. Her Hufflepuffs follow her like sheep to the slaughter. She wonders if they even know what it is they are fighting for.
The attack is not well planned, but it does suffice, and now no one will ever be able to claim that the Hufflepuffs did not rise up and fight that night.
:::
It’s not until Pomona finds one of her own students dead that he heart breaks in her chest and pain attacks her head. She can’t handle the idea that one of her House could die in this mess. She breaks down besides the dead body, lost in her grief for a few seconds.
When she stands up again, she rounds on the first movement she hears, her wand at the Death Eater’s throat before he reacts. It isn’t until after he’s dead that Pomona sees the Hufflepuff badge on him. It hits the ground near his mask.
Pomona keeps going.
:::
It isn’t until the battle has ended-for the second time-that Filius takes a moment to think about what has transpired. Voldemort is dead. Bathsheda, with whom he played chess with every Friday night, is laid out in the Great Hall, awaiting her burial shroud and coffin. He has killed three children, two recent graduates, and more Death Eaters than he wants to count. He knows that he has more blood on his hands than he will ever wash clean. Suddenly, he cannot breathe.
But then he watches Su Li, a Ravenclaw Muggle-born, comfort a pureblood Slytherin, and he exhales shakily.
:::
“You killed a student,” Pomona states, her tone accusatory. Filius has always respected the younger woman for her just dealings with everyone she comes into contact with. She’s taught beside him for more than thirty years, and he has never seen her be unreasonable or play favorites when dealing with misdemeanors. He values her opinions on almost everything, and he’s always held her in high esteem.
But that does not mean he will allow her to damn him for doing what needed to be done. He’s an idealistic man, but necessity is something he understands.
“Actually, Professor, I killed three.”
:::
“Do you remember the War?” Minerva asks, a few days later, while Horace is sipping cold tea and Filius is rereading a letter from his great grandson. Pomona does not look up from her knitting, but her hands slow and her lips harden into a line.
Horace is the first to respond. “Which one?” he asks, because there have been too many. He and Filius remember the Great War, against Grindelwald, when the whole world was so dark candles feared to burn too brightly. They all remember the First War, where happiness was a sin.
Minerva shrugs, “Any of them.”
Author: liliths_requiem
Characters: Horace Slughorn, Filius Flitwick, Poppy Pomfrey, Pomona Sprout, Albus Dumbledore, Madame Pince, Fabian Prewett, Gideon Prewett, Aberforth Dumbledore
Prompt number: 268
Word Count: 2100
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Harsh dialogue, questionable morals, fall from grace for many professors
Summary: 21 drabbles chronicling the three wars faced by the Wizarding world during the twentieth century, as seen by the professors.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its merchandise, characters, plots, or history. This story was written for enjoyment purposes.
Author’s Notes: I really like how this came out, even if it does move away from the prompt. Thanks so much to K for being an amazing beta, and thanks to the mods for holding this fest :)
The Ornaments of our Generation
“This isn’t difficult, Horace,” Filius reprimands as they go through the steps again. “Swish, flick, wrist snap left, and loop. You have to get it perfect. Are you bloody paying attention?” Both of them are restless, hungry, and sleep-deprived; but this may be the only shot at escape they have. They’ve been in hiding, living behind enemy lines with a defector and her daughter, gathering covert information about Grindelwald to which not even Dumbledore has access.
“This whole thing is difficult,” Horace responds, “Is it ever going to end?”
Filius doesn’t have a response for that, so he says nothing.
:::
Poppy is staring sat Horace’s mangled body, but her words are directed to the man behind her. “And we’re supposed to believe we can win?”
Albus doesn’t move, but the comfort in his tone is more tangible than a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be over soon,” he promises, “And it will get easier. The world is going to change, Poppy.”
“I don’t know how much longer you can keep convincing us,” she tells him, pouring another potion into Horace’s open wound. “But I’ll keep fighting.”
It’s more than a promise, it’s a fact. Poppy will always be a Hufflepuff.
:::
When the war ends, with a final duel that decides everything, no one rejoices. The battlefield is silent as both sides collect their wounded and their dead. The Aurors begin to round up their prisoners. As the Germans walk through the open field, those lucky enough to be on the right side stare on with empty eyes.
Closest to Dumbledore are Horace and Madame Marchbanks. Horace looks on as Albus falls into the old woman’s arms, his body tired and his soul worn. He shudders, because watching Albus Dumbledore fall apart is the same as learning the God is fallible.
:::
“And now the sun will shine, yes?” Madame Pince asks, as she is taken from her prison cell into Filius’ custody. “Now you will tell me that I am lucky Albus owed my father a favor, and that I should be repentant.”
“No,” Filius responds, quietly. “You fought for what you believed in. I cannot fault you for such a thing. Professor Dumbledore is offering you freedom. I only think that you should be grateful to him.”
“You are in the Ravenclaw House, then,” she says, after a moment, “You are too fair to be any of the other three.”
:::
September 1, 1945, arrives only thirteen days after Grindelwald was imprisoned inside his own fortress and damned to never see the outside world again. Pomona Sprout begins her second year at Hogwarts completely convinced that everything in the world is going to be okay now. Her favorite teacher, Professor Flitwick, tells her that her optimism is refreshing. She dashes off to her next class wearing a proud smile. She doesn’t hear the words Filius isn’t entirely sure he’s spoken aloud.
“Perhaps the young people will prosper,” it’s more of a hope than a conjecture, “Perhaps the worst is behind us.”
:::
Minerva McGonagall begins Hogwarts a year later. She’s a broken little thing, but fierce, and she’s such a quick learner that Horace soon believes her to be the smartest witch of her age. She smiles in the worst way, but as time passes and she settles into routine, Minerva finds her footing and flourishes in her studies. She befriends Pomona half-way through January, and they are soon joined by Alastor Moody, a Slytherin. The three of them make an awkward trio, as they share neither year nor house. But in seeing them find friendship, despite their differences, Horace finds hope.
:::
“I don’t like him, Professor,” Pomona explains when Professor Beery asks her to tutor Tom Riddle. She is in her final year at Hogwarts, and looking to take a post-graduate assistantship for a few years to continue in Herbology. Riddle is in his fourth year and wants advanced lessons in Herbology. Pomona is honored to be chosen but not stupid enough to say yes. When Al tells her not to trust someone, she usually listens.
“I can do it myself then,” Beery replies, wondering why his star pupil seems so against the young man.
He shrugs, perhaps it’s just jealousy.
:::
This Wreck of Our Belief
:::
“Dumbledore says it’s Riddle,” Moody tells her over tea. Pomona shivers at the idea, but hides it well. The only physical manifestation of her fear is a slight tremor in her hand as she picks up her cup and brings it to her lips. She hasn’t heard that name since Dippet praised him for turning in Hagrid, and she’s been half-hoping Riddle’s fallen off the face of the earth.
One look at Al’s face, however, and she knows he hasn’t.
“What is the Ministry going to do about it?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady.
“They don’t know yet.”
:::
The Ministry doesn’t find out for another ten years. It’s 1974 and Minerva’s been teaching Transfiguration long enough to watch two generations pass through Hogwarts’ gates. She’s still broken, and she knows Horace knows it. He’s protective of her and it makes her wish he was a better man, instead of a spineless, old twit. She respects him, if only because he keeps going, when so many of his generation have stopped.
“They say it’s Riddle,” she tells him, as they’re watching a Quidditch match. “What do you think?”
Horace shakes his head. “I’ve learned it’s best not to think.”
:::
“He was brilliant, though, do you remember?”
Pomona’s never been one to begrudge anyone praise, but she blanches when Filius calls Riddle brilliant. She remembers the way he used to charm his way into her friends’ beds and out of her professors’ punishments. He was so charismatic it was sinful, and if she hadn’t given up on God she’d mark Tom Riddle Jr. down as the Devil.
“You never care about morals, do you Filius?”
“I think I am old enough that I should no longer have to.”
Dumbledore, from down the table, disagrees, “You will never be that old.”
:::
Horace asks her mockingly, “You fled England to support Grindelwald, will you flee Hogwarts to support this Voldemort?”
Madame Pince barely opens her mouth when she says, “Do not think that Gellert and this miscreant are of equal stature. Gellert would decimate this young man without so much as a wand movement. Your Voldemort is a weak imitation of greatness. My Gellert was greatness personified.”
Horace shudders at the display of passion, burning after almost thirty years of separation. He wonders if it’s safe to keep her in the castle, but knows he would never trust her outside its walls.
:::
“Caradoc Dearborn is dead.”
Fabian says the words without the slightest bit of hesitation. His eyes are hard and his face is drawn shut, like curtains over a broken window in a futile attempt to keep out the wind. He is only thirty-three years old, but he looks much older as he stands up in front of the Order and gives them this news.
His brother stands next to him, his counterpoint, and adds, “Or defected, we aren’t sure.”
Fabian shakes his head, “Yes. We are.”
But although Fabian was in her House, Pomona cannot help but believe Filius’ Gideon.
:::
Aberforth is the first to learn of the Potters’ passing. He waits thirty minutes before sending his patronus to inform his brother of the prophesized ending. He knows that Destiny will need time to interpret the events before Albus can intervene in them. Albus likes to disturb the universe, and Aberforth thinks Fate is something with which not even magic can contend.
“I do wish you would have told me right away,” Albus says, ten hours later, “We may have caught him.”
Aberforth says nothing, but there’s something in his eyes that tells Albus his brother’s hesitance was not unplanned.
:::
“Two wars, Albus, and I’m not even one hundred yet,” Filius complains, as they finish the pudding of their victory feast. Not that any of the professors feel very much like celebrating. Minerva breaks down into tears each time someone says Sirius’ name, and Horace can’t speak for fear of blubbering over Lily’s death. Filius has never seen his oldest friend look so weak, and it’s pathetic, but Filius won’t behoove him the right to grieve.
Albus nods his head, but it’s Irma who says, “Let’s hope we won’t see a third one.”
“Hope is a fragile thing,” Albus says.
:::
The Worst Become Impossible
:::
“We duel to kill.”
The words echo in his mind like a battle cry, and he wonders if she meant it that way. Minerva has always had too much of that Scottish blood running through her veins, and Horace cannot help but believe that her Muggle ancestry has something to do with her impulsiveness.
He never thought she’d reduce herself to the murder of students, however. Maybe that isn’t the way she sees it, but that’s the way it is. Minerva is about to do battle with the monsters, and her old professor fears she will become one of them.
:::
When she says the words, their repercussions aren’t immediate, and she’s almost secure in her belief that she won’t have to attack any of the children she and Horace teach. But then she runs into a sixth year Slytherin in her NEWT class, his arm raised in an attack stance and his eyes hardened against any silent pleas her eyes may be belying her tight lipped scowl with.
“Stupefy.”
She breathes deeply when the curse hits. When she turns, she is surprised to see Horace.
“You must forget that they are children, if you are going to duel with them.”
:::
The idea comes to her unbidden, because Pomona has never had any interest in fighting in a battle, only in protecting her students. She runs to the greenhouses before anyone else can think to guard them, and she tears open the door like something only half human. Her Hufflepuffs follow her like sheep to the slaughter. She wonders if they even know what it is they are fighting for.
The attack is not well planned, but it does suffice, and now no one will ever be able to claim that the Hufflepuffs did not rise up and fight that night.
:::
It’s not until Pomona finds one of her own students dead that he heart breaks in her chest and pain attacks her head. She can’t handle the idea that one of her House could die in this mess. She breaks down besides the dead body, lost in her grief for a few seconds.
When she stands up again, she rounds on the first movement she hears, her wand at the Death Eater’s throat before he reacts. It isn’t until after he’s dead that Pomona sees the Hufflepuff badge on him. It hits the ground near his mask.
Pomona keeps going.
:::
It isn’t until the battle has ended-for the second time-that Filius takes a moment to think about what has transpired. Voldemort is dead. Bathsheda, with whom he played chess with every Friday night, is laid out in the Great Hall, awaiting her burial shroud and coffin. He has killed three children, two recent graduates, and more Death Eaters than he wants to count. He knows that he has more blood on his hands than he will ever wash clean. Suddenly, he cannot breathe.
But then he watches Su Li, a Ravenclaw Muggle-born, comfort a pureblood Slytherin, and he exhales shakily.
:::
“You killed a student,” Pomona states, her tone accusatory. Filius has always respected the younger woman for her just dealings with everyone she comes into contact with. She’s taught beside him for more than thirty years, and he has never seen her be unreasonable or play favorites when dealing with misdemeanors. He values her opinions on almost everything, and he’s always held her in high esteem.
But that does not mean he will allow her to damn him for doing what needed to be done. He’s an idealistic man, but necessity is something he understands.
“Actually, Professor, I killed three.”
:::
“Do you remember the War?” Minerva asks, a few days later, while Horace is sipping cold tea and Filius is rereading a letter from his great grandson. Pomona does not look up from her knitting, but her hands slow and her lips harden into a line.
Horace is the first to respond. “Which one?” he asks, because there have been too many. He and Filius remember the Great War, against Grindelwald, when the whole world was so dark candles feared to burn too brightly. They all remember the First War, where happiness was a sin.
Minerva shrugs, “Any of them.”